Things We Never Said (Hart's Boardwalk 3)

“Dar …” My dad shook his head. “Let Dahlia rest.”

My brother heaved an exasperated sigh. “Shit, I’m sorry, kiddo.”

“It’s okay.” The subject hurt too much. Instead, my eyes went to Dad. “Where’s Michael?”

Dad pressed my hand to his cheek, and I felt as well as saw him smile. “I forced him to go home for a shower. That was ten minutes ago, so my guess is he’ll be back in another ten.”

It was selfish, but I was glad. I wanted him with me. “I’m sorry I scared you all.”

“You did,” Dad agreed. “But I can hardly be mad about it when you saved a woman’s life and helped the cops apprehend a killer.”

The tips of my ears grew hot. “When you say it like that, it’s very cool.”

They laughed, and Davina nudged my leg. “I always said you had a hero complex.”

I let my family’s banter wash over me. Not too long later, we had to call for a nurse because I was in pain. She allowed my family to stay, and she didn’t say a word when Michael returned, adding to the numbers. He kissed me on the lips in front of everyone and didn’t even seem to care that I had hospital breath.

“You hungry?” he asked.

I was. A little.

Michael fed me spoonfuls of Jell-O, and I grinned between every bite, making him chuckle. Despite the pain, it was pretty great. I didn’t feel mad about the gunshot wound so much anymore.

I was alive.

I had my family with me.

I was in love.

And I felt strong, infused with the power of forgiveness and devotion.

Three Months Later

The soft sunlight filtered through the gauzy curtains Dahlia had hung over the bedroom window. It spilled down over their bed, and Michael rested his chin on his arm as he watched Dahlia sleep.

Her sling had come off yesterday, and it was the first time in three months he’d seen her look relaxed in her sleep. There was still some pain. She’d been lucky—there had been no bone damage—but Michael thought she wouldn’t be fully healed for another few months yet.

Her long lashes fluttered in her sleep and contentment washed over him.

She was beautiful. She didn’t need a scrap of makeup to be beautiful. It shone out of her. Even more so since she’d charged to Ivy Green’s rescue and helped him apprehend Freddie Jackson.

Nothing could ever have prepared Michael for the almost paralyzing fear that rushed over him when he saw Dahlia being wheeled out of her apartment building on a stretcher. To sit with her in the ambulance as she lay unconscious, chalk white …

Shot.

He knew then he’d been wrong when he said he could exist without her, but he couldn’t live without her. Michael knew he couldn’t even exist in a world where she was no more.

And he didn’t give a fuck if that made him weak.

He reached out and trailed the back of his knuckles down her arm. They were a pair, him and her. The halves of one whole. Neither of them made sense without the other. Living together was pro

of of that. Michael had moved in with her during her recovery so he could take care of her. He’d helped her shower, he’d held her when she woke up, sweating with nightmares that were typical signs of trauma in a GSW victim, and he talked her through her fears since she didn’t want to go back to seeing a therapist.

The nightmares eventually stopped.

But Michael never left.

She made him promise not to go.